Proof that his shot had not missed its mark was supplied to John
immediately upon his arrival at the office on the following morning,
when he was met by Pugsy Maloney with the information that a gentleman
had called to see him.

"With or without a black-jack?" enquired John. "Did he give any name?"

"Sure. Parker's his name. He blew in oncst before when Mr. Smith was
here. I loosed him into de odder room."

John walked through. The man he had seen with Mr. Scobell at the
Knickerbocker was standing at the window.

"And I bet he'd rather come here than be where he is. That little
surprise packet of yours last night put him down and out. Gave him a
stroke of some sort. He's in bed now, with half-a-dozen doctors working
on him."

He could not help feeling a touch of remorse. He had no reason to be
fond of Mr. Scobell, but he was sorry that this should have happened.

They went out on the street. A taximeter cab was standing by the
sidewalk. They got in. Neither spoke. John was thoughtful and
preoccupied. Mr. Parker, too, appeared to be absorbed in his own
thoughts. He sat with folded arms and lowered head.

The cab buzzed up Fifth Avenue. Suddenly something, half-seen through
the window, brought John to himself with a jerk. It was the great white
mass of the Plaza Hotel. The next moment he saw that they were abreast
of the park, and for the first time an icy wave of suspicion swept over
him.

Mr. Parker's right hand came swiftly out of ambush, and something
gleamed in the sun.

"Don't move," said Mr. Parker. The hard nozzle of a pistol pressed
against John's chest. "Keep that hand still."

John dropped his hand. Mr. Parker leaned back, with the pistol resting
easily on his knee. The cab began to move more quickly.

John's mind was in a whirl. His chief emotion was not fear, but disgust
that he should have allowed himself to be trapped, with such absurd
ease. He blushed for himself. Mr. Parker's face was expressionless, but
who could say what tumults of silent laughter were not going on inside
him? John bit his lip.

It flashed across his mind that, unless driven to it by an attack, his
captor would do nothing for the moment without running grave risks
himself. To shoot now would be to attract attention. The cab would be
overtaken at once by bicycle police, and stopped. There would be no
escape. No, nothing could happen till they reached open country. At
least he would have time to think this matter over in all its bearings.

Mr. Parker ignored the question. He was sitting in the same attitude of
watchfulness, the revolver resting on his knee. He seemed mistrustful
of John's right hand, which was hanging limply at his side. It was from
this quarter that he appeared to expect attack. The cab was bowling
easily up the broad street, past rows and rows of high houses each
looking exactly the same as the last. Occasionally, to the right,
through a break in the line of buildings, a glimpse of the river could
be seen.

A faint hope occurred to John that, by talking, he might put the other
off his guard for just that instant which was all he asked. He exerted
himself to find material for conversation.

"Tell me," he said, "what you said about Mr. Scobell, was that true?
About his being ill in bed?"

Mr. Parker did not answer, but a wintry smile flittered across his
face.

"You can't do a thing yet, that's sure," said John confidently. "If you
shot me now, the cab would be stopped, and you would be lynched by the
populace. I seem to see them tearing you limb from limb. 'She loves
me!' Off comes an arm. 'She loves me not!' A leg joins the little heap
on the ground. That is what would happen, Mr. Parker."

The other shrugged his shoulders, and relapsed into silence once more.

The cab moved swiftly on. Now they had reached the open country. An
occasional wooden shack was passed, but that was all. At any moment,
John felt, the climax of the drama might be reached, and he got ready.
His muscles stiffened for a spring. There was little chance of its
being effective, but at least it would be good to put up some kind of a
fight. And he had a faint hope that the suddenness of his movement
might upset the other's aim. He was bound to be hit somewhere. That was
certain. But quickness might save him to some extent. He braced his leg
against the back of the cab. And, as he did so, its smooth speed
changed to a series of jarring jumps, each more emphatic than the last.
It slowed down, then came to a halt. There was a thud, as the chauffeur
jumped down. John heard him fumbling in the tool box. Presently the
body of the machine was raised slightly as he got to work with the
jack. John's muscles relaxed. He leaned back. Surely something could be
made of this new development. But the hand that held the revolver never
wavered. He paused, irresolute. And at the moment somebody spoke in the
road outside.

The Kid, as he had stated that he intended to do, had begun his
training for his match with Eddie Wood at White Plains. It was his
practise to open a course of training with a little gentle road-work,
and it was while jogging along the highway a couple of miles from his
training camp, in company with the two thick-necked gentlemen who acted
as his sparring partners, that he had come upon the broken-down
taxicab.

If this had happened after his training had begun in real earnest, he
would have averted his eyes from the spectacle, however alluring, and
continued on his way without a pause. But now, as he had not yet
settled down to genuine hard work, he felt justified in turning aside
and looking into the matter. The fact that the chauffeur, who seemed to
be a taciturn man, lacking the conversational graces, manifestly
objected to an audience, deterred him not at all. One cannot have
everything in this world, and the Kid and his attendant thick-necks
were content to watch the process of mending the tire, without
demanding the additional joy of sparkling small talk from the man in
charge of the operations.

There came the sound of the Kid's feet grating on the road, as he
turned, and, as he heard it, Mr. Parker for the first time lost his
head. With a vague idea of screening John, he half-rose. The pistol
wavered. It was the chance John had prayed for. His left hand shot out,
grasped the other's wrist, and gave it a sharp wrench. The pistol went
off with a deafening report, the bullet passing through the back of the
cab, then fell to the floor, as the fingers lost their hold. And the
next moment John's right fist, darting upward, crashed home.

The effect was instantaneous. John had risen from his seat as he
delivered the blow, and it got the full benefit of his weight. Mr.
Parker literally crumpled up. His head jerked, then fell limply forward.
John pushed him on to the seat as he slid toward the floor.

The interested face of the Kid appeared at the window. Behind him could
be seen portions of the faces of the two thick-necks.

"Hello, Kid," said John. "I heard your voice. I hoped you might look in
for a chat."

"What's been doin'?" asked the Kid. "What are you going to do with this
guy?"

John inspected the prostrate Mr. Parker, who had begun to stir
slightly.

"I guess we'll leave him here," he said. "I've had all of his company
that I need for to-day. Show me the nearest station, Kid. I must be
getting back to New York. I'll tell you all about it as we go. A walk
will do me good. Riding in a taxi is pleasant, but, believe me, you can
have too much of it."